Misty Mornings on the Canal

It has taken me a good three weeks to adapt to life aboard a barge. My body clock (set on fast-forward) took some time to wind down. In the beginning, I felt shackled with lead weights. My body wanted to move forward, but at 4K/hr, I was reduced to a crawl.

The weather has been unseasonably cold. Travel usually involves some regrets as to what you forgot to pack in your suitcase. This trip I really regret bringing gloves. Mittens would have been good. Sturdy gardening gloves would have been better. My fallback has been to buy some pink, rubber kitchen gloves which add touch of color (if not class) to my navy blue pants, blue turtleneck, blue sweatshirt and blue hooded waterproof.

The high-fashion hand you’d love to hold.

Mornings are misty, and we’ve had our share of rain. To the plus side, we pass very few boats. We have the canal to ourselves and that is very pleasant.  I love the rural nature of the canal-side buttercups, Queen Anne’s lace, and cultivated fields interspersed with a green jungle of ivy-clad deciduous trees. Gray herons and ducks abound. Apparently some Mallards have yet to breed and we see a mousy brown female escorted by two irridescent green-headed males. Most often the males follow- one to her left flank and one to her right. She seems oblivious to her courtiers awaiting her notice. She pays them no heed. Which male will catch her attention is anyone’s guess. Those Mallards who have already hatched a clutch of eggs have eight to ten ducklings.

mirror image

Most of the ducklings trail their mother, but always one or two march to their own drummer. Left to their own devices, they suddenly realize that they are out of step, and they swim so fast to catch up that they appear to walk on water. 

We delight in the cuckoos. The cuckoo’s call is regular as a metronome, each “cuc” and every “koo” beating out the seconds with the regularity of a Swiss watch.

I’m reading Where Angels Fear to Tread by E. M. Forster. I’ve seen the movies based on Forster’s novels: loved Howard’s End, Passage to India and Room with a View, but this is the first time I’ve actually immersed myself in his prose. What a treat! I feel as though I’ve fallen through the rabbit hole and into a candy store.

I am reminded that however true the book is to the script, however talented the actors, however insightful the director, no movie can compare to the written word and the reader’s imagination to film the scene in his mind’s eye.

The book itself is a used, faded, yellow-paged, Penguin Classic from a charity shop. Here on the barge, I have abused it. Now it is really used with stars, underlining, and margin notes. I will not be passing this book on. It will be a textbook of sorts. I have tasted Forster, rolled his wording in my mouth and savored his phrasing. Dare I hope that by osmosis my writing will improve? It is a silly question. If I were to go to an opera and swoon to the music, would I be able to sing equally well the next morning? I think not.

The book’s introduction, appendix and notes add so much. Long Live Penguin Classics! In the appendix I read an exchange between Forster and English poet and translator, R.C.Trevelyn. In a letter, dated 28 October 1905, Forster wrote, “The object of the book is the improvement of Philip, and I did really want the improvement to be a surprise.”

Iris – the slow reveal

In his letter to Trevelyan, Forster shares his anguish over how to accomplish his aim… to avoid transparency and to not give away too much too soon: “This ‘surprise’ method is artistically wrong and that from the first one must suggest the possibility, not the merely the impossibility, of improvement. I do dislike finger posts.” Foster’s letter is a Master Class in the technique of characterization and the slow reveal. I am tempted to re-read the novel and chapter by chapter and weigh the clues to Philip’s transformation from an amoral, superficial, young man to a man of more substance.

E. M. Forster, master of the slow reveal.

Sex Education in France

This blogging while travelling is not for the faint of heart. Focus is a problem. I look to the left and I see a beautiful arched bridge spanning a town crowded with 17^th and 18^th century stone houses. I look to the right and see we are approaching a lock: are we going up or down; are we tying up on the left or right; will the lock keeper also be selling goat cheese, wine or white asparagus? Travel aboard a barge may be slow, but you have more free time for wonder, speculation, and appreciation.

And then there are the odd bits. A mural on a wall, an odd sign, a meal you have eaten, a wine you’ve drunk. How do you pick and choose topics for the blog?

Not that I speak French, but luckily for me, as one of the Romance languages, French has many cognates. I may not understand what the French are saying, but I can read a bit. One sign called my attention to sex. The sign was set up as an acrostic. The words Desir, Aventure, Passion, Plaisir, Sexe, Emotions, Amour, Partage, and Tendresse were listed one below the other. But running vertically through the words, letters framed in red spelled out “Depistage.” At the bottom of the sign read: “Le depistage fait parlie de volre vie sexuelle. Faites le test du VIH et des autres IST.”

I knew that the sign warned against HIV and sexually transmitted disease, but it was only after I turned to an English/French dictionary that I caught the tone.

The only words I needed to look up were “Plaisir” which is pleasure and “Partage” which is sharing. As for the concluding sentences, the text in English reads: Screening is part of sex life. Take the test for HIV and other STIs.

I am struck by the sign because the tone is so different in America as compared to the tone in France. Sex education posters in the States are not warm and friendly. Rather, they feel like pursed lips and pointing fingers. The frowning judgemental American posters are pointing their fingers at careless promiscuous sex addicts. In contrast, the French posters feel more like a hug. Note the words: emotion, love, sharing, and tenderness. Screening for sexually transmitted disease is not just for selfish sex addicts. Screening is for everyone who cares about his partner.

The Dark Side of Mistletoe

Not that we don’t have green vegetation in Westcliffe, but the number of deciduous trees here in France takes me back East to New York and Pennsylvania. The mistletoe infestation – particularly severe between Never and Sancerre- catches my eye. Nearly every tree along the canal is festooned like some pagan Christmas tree with big 24” balls of mistletoe. This can’t be healthy. I am left to wonder (during these hard economic times… aren’t you tired of hearing that phrase?) if France has the resources to combat the parasites. Pruning is the only answer. Surely the country cares. The number of newly planted trees is evidence to that.

Cruising along the canal, I count the number of mistletoe balls on each tree. I am looking for an average. What is the average number of balls, and how many balls does it take to kill a tree? 15 balls seem to be about average. I begin to wonder if at 15 balls, the mistletoe and the host tree come to an understanding… reach some sort of stasis: the tree tolerates the infestation, but the balls intuitively sense how many of them can derive nutrients without fatally killing the golden goose. Once the balls reach critical mass, do they back off?

All this conjecture is silly, but these random thoughts lead me to think of the health of our planet. If humans are the parasites, how many parasites will it take to kill planet earth? Or… when we parasites hit critical mass, will we be smart enough to back off on our consumption? In the case of the mistletoe, pruning is the only solution; in the case of the planet, pruning is not a solution. Perhaps we should start with an awareness of the problem.

Enough! As I said, the French have been very diligent planting trees. The trees (some variety of poplar, I think) standing straight and erect as sentinels, line the canal and mark our passage. I feel like royalty.

Periodically, we pass woodlots, each tree planted equidistant from the others to allow for maximum growth. As I understand it, every year each community (commune) plants a plot of saplings destined for cutting in 30 years. Planting and harvesting annually, the wood supply is constant and free to those engaged in the process. What a great model.   

We drift through white wine country. Even those of us who weren’t keen on drinking whites, have become enamored with the white wines of the Sancerre region. We buy bottles to save, but then we have to buy more bottles because we have drunk the first batch.

as far as the eye can see

Sancerre is hilly country and as the old saw goes, the best wine comes from the sunny side. We write down the names of the vineyards and the wines that we like best, but then we realize that most likely these wines will not make it to the United States. We stop for wine tastings and learn more about viniculture than I’ll ever remember. According to my notes, 280 producers depend on 2,750 acres under cultivation. 80 percent of the land in the Sancerre region is devoted to Sauvignon blanc grapes; 20 to percent Pinot noir.

High wheeled tractors (their wheels running between the rows of vines and the crab-like body of the cab above the vines) have articulated arms that reach over the vines and elbow down to the base. The arms are emitting fungicide to fight Phylloxera, a small sap-sucking insect that feeds on the grapes’ roots. Between 1854 and 1860, the insects came close to killing the wine industry. By the end of the 19^th century, 2/3 of the existing vineyards were infected. Heaven forbid! Luckily, phylloxera is at this point under control. Supplying more water during irrigation and adding lighter sandy soil is a help.

As for what I learned… I learned how the soil and the relative layering of the clay, chalk and flint soil affects the taste of the wine. The wine and a wealth of information have my head swimming.

I need to sit down. Rest a bit. Sip a glass of wine.

 

The Royal Way

A Snail’s Tale

If I had woken up and looked out the window not knowing where I was, would I have recognized my location? Looking out the window, I instantly knew (like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz) that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

Although France, like England, has been experiencing drought conditions, recent rains and the burgeoning of spring have turned the whole world green. The numerous oak trees are in transition. I see their gnarly, lateral branches, straight out of some witchy Walt Disney movie. The budding leaves are just unfurling – their scalloped lobes are clearly visible.

In the fields, I see sheep and white Charolais cattle. In the States, we may see Charolais, but most likely as a novelty breed at the State Fair. Here in France, they are a dime-a-dozen. And so, more than any other clue, the cattle give our location. The sun is shining although the there is no guarantee that it will last. The weather is very unstable: in any given day we have sun, showers, and squalls.

I’m aboard a barge moored at Fleury sur Loire, a small village on a wide canal that runs parallel to the Loire River. According to our reference book, I can cycle to an unspoiled beach some 8 kilometers away. Or I can check out the remains of a Roman Villa, a 12^th century church, lengths of the old Roman road or a 13^th century château. I’m spoiled for choice. If I should miss the château coming up on our right, I can catch another. How blasé!

A fan of cemeteries, I check the Fleury village memorial to the fallen soldiers. 41 died in WW I; 3 in WW II. I want to take a look at the WW I battle lines. How could so many men die from such a small village? And what of the women? Was the village larger during the WW I period? I can’t tell you how much I miss having Internet close to hand. I miss having a question and being unable to instantly look for the answer. I am so spoiled.

Apremont-sur-Allier is a “three-flower village,” a designation awarded places of distinctive beauty. Charted in 1467,, Apremont-sur-Allier features a château at the top of a knoll, and at a lower elevation is the village that at one point housed the château’s support staff- the farmers, the domestic help, the folks who kept the fiefdom up and running. Today the restored château features five of the original 14 defensive towers.

Rather than a hodge-podge of helter-skelter houses built over the centuries, the village houses are uniform.. During the 1930s, Eugene Schneider (one member of the Schneider family that has owned the estate since 1722) undertook the most recent restoration. Houses not in keeping with the medieval style were demolished, and new houses were built to a medieval architectural standard. The village is beautiful, but it feels synthetic.

I’d rather see three, authentic, medieval houses in a mis-matched village. Every “regular” village we cruise past has storybook depth. Every house in every village (stone or stucco over stone) is a treat to the eye. If only the houses could talk – they have seen so much – what stories they could tell! Nearly all houses have working outside shutters (not to be confused with merely decorative shutters). My first impression was that nearly all homes were closed for the winter, but the shutters are closed on a daily basis. Should a home with shutters need to make an insurance claim, shuttered homes will have an easier time.

Life aboard is a barge is very slow. We have covered 85 miles in two weeks of travel. We putt along at a snail’s pace. Navigating the canals is an exercise of life in the slow lane. Sometimes the gates are open in our direction. Other times we have to wait for approaching boats to come our way and clear the lock before we can enter. Walking the rural by-ways , I have seen many snails. Some are king-prawn size – one is big enough to serve as an appetizer.

Pont Canal du Guetin

Thus far, my favorite lock has been Pont Canal du Guetin, the elevated aqueduct over the Loire River. Ahead, water in the lock lies smooth as silk. Below, the Loire river water tumbles past in a rush of white. Salmon ladders add to the froth. The 174 kilometer canal - begun in 1783 and completed in 1842 - was built to facilitate floating wood cut in the Morvan forests to Paris. Although we have seen a couple of commercial barges, today, the canal caters mostly to recreational traffic.

In my last blog, I mentioned that I was chagrined that none (not one) of us spoke French. How, I wondered, would we survive? Well, we have survived (if not thrived) with smiles and hand signals. In addition to carrying a French/English dictionary, I have a wordless, picture dictionary which is perfect for those of us who look at the phonetic spelling of  French and are still confused as to the pronunciation.

Despite their reputation for being impatient with non-French speakers, the people whom we have met seem to delight in our combination English, Spanish, and gestures. Charades. I’ve always been good at charades.

Cruising on the Canal lateral a la Loire

April has come and gone. London is done . And now it is May. I write from France. The showers have followed us. Yesterday, May first was glorious, but today is May second, and we have returned to skies the color of wet sheep.

We travelled to France by Eurostar. I am never happy travelling beneath the English Channel. It is a long 20 minutes as I envision fault-lines, shifting plates, tremors and earthquakes which would crush our underground passage. It’s a horror movie in the making – a bit like the Titanic but worse because we would be trapped within the train. Rose was able to jump into the North Atlantic; we would not be able to jump. As it was, I dozed off and woke up safe on the far side.

Our destination was Paris and then south by train to Nevers where we would meet our rental barge and slowly wend our way back to Paris.

I sit facing backwards as the train speeds south from Paris. Facing forward, you rush towards; facing backwards, the present is the past before you have a moment to acknowledge it. I’ve “been in the moment,” but the moment passed in a gasp. If the present is the past, and I am in-between, where am I? I can see, reflected in the window on my side, the passengers sitting across the aisle. Their reflections are ghost-like. Are we all ghosts drifting through a Netherland?

The terrain between the Channel and Paris is flat and agricultural. Acres and acres of unfenced land in various shades of freshly tilled brown and sprouting green interspersed with bright buttercup-yellow squares of rapeseed in bloom. After the irregular, crazy-quilt fields of England (a triangle here and a trapezoid there hemmed in by dry-stacked fences and hedgerows) the cultivated land of northern France seems Soviet state-farm expansive. I find myself speculating as to the number of years this land has been under cultivation. Is the soil played out? How much fertilizer does it take to make a crop?

“The Gleaners” Jean-Francois Millet

I think of “The Gleaners” by Millet. I try to remember when I first saw a print of this painting – in primary school, I think. It was above the blackboard – just above the alphabet in cursive letters. I have no idea why a small rural school in up-state New York would have a painting of French peasants, but the image and my childhood memory (so much stronger than the education and experience of my later years) still holds sway. Looking out at the industrialized farming, I am disappointed not to see a peasant. (When the painting was first exhibited, it was poorly received by the French upper classes. A painting of field hands was not an appropriate subject for ART.)

My husband and I and l are travelling the month of May aboard a barge captained by Mark and Lynn Prebble who also call Colorado home. “The Waterman,” built in 1925, is a burly, 25-ton boat. It is a lot like driving a tank. Why our good friend Nigel Orr, the boat’s owner, would loan a 25-ton boat to Americans who speak no French and have minimal canal boat experience is beyond me.  

Wish us luck. We will need it.

Genghis Khan Rides into London

Genghis Khan is the newest sculpture at Marble Arch and I love it! The raw power and the crazed eyes of the Khan and his horse are enough to make you cringe. Dashi Namdakov‘s sculpture speaks for itself.

Which isn’t to say that plenty of other people have nothing to say. Quite to the contrary. The arguments fall into two camps. One camp admires the brilliance of Genghis Khan, a man who could conquer more land and people in 25 years than the Romans could conquer in 400 years. They also point to the Kahn’s introduction of paper money, a postal system and his promotion of religious tolerance.

detractors point to the millions of deaths at the hands of the Mongolian leader. As I take a stroll the Internet, I note that there is plenty of biased information to support both camps. And isn’t that the way of it? Unfortunately, mere mortals write history.

At face value, Genghis Khan doesn’t seem like a nice guy, but as a work of art, does the 16-foot sculpture necessarily honor the man, his might, or the carnage that he left in his wake? Some will see the sculpture as an inspired work of art; some will see it as an homage to power; and others will see it as a caution: beware of the abuse of power.

The artistic merit of Namdakov’s sculpture is unquestionable. As to Genghis Khan, isn’t the debate… the questions raised by the work… of equal value?

I close with a video of The Neville Brothers singing Bob Dylan‘s anti-war song, “With God on Our Side.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6tyIjfE-tIk&feature=related

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Writers’ Prompt:

When training students in the art of debate, teachers require students to defend positions that run counter to each student’s core beliefs. This is a great exercise in that it allows students to anticipate and deflect arguments that will come their way. Also, the students may better understand and maybe even appreciate the opposition..

• Choose a topic that you feel strongly about and write a short piece that incorporates the beliefs of the opposition. Or…
• Write in response to the notion that God is on our side.

Pink Nude Comes to The Serpentine

The Serpentine, as seen above, runs through Hyde Park, London. It a lovely waterway constructed in 1730 by Queen Caroline, wife of King George II. Yesterday, the weather was sharp. Undeterred by a brisk breeze, a few folks braved the weather to use the green and white striped deck chairs standing at-the-ready should the sun show its face. The English are a hardy lot.

Walking “Rotten Row” (a corruption of Route de Roi’ or King’s Road, formerly the straightest path between St. James and Kensington Palace) I looked up from the horse parade to see both the London Eye and The Shard, London’s newest building in the distance.

Although I’m not much for tourist attractions, I will say with no embarrassment, that I have ridden in the giant ferris wheel (so big that the 32 pods can carry a total of 800 passengers) and found the 360 degree view to be worth the price of admission.

Scheduled for completion in June, The Shard was not without its detractors. UNESCO was worried that the glass spire would compromise the “visual integrity” of the Tower of London. Giles Coren, a columnist for the London Times wrote that the monument paid tribute to “fat-cattism.” Regardless, the building project moved forward and is now at 1,016 ft, the tallest building in Europe. It is also, should you be looking for investment property or perhaps a cosy little place to call home, the most expensive. Spread over 13 floors, ten apartments will be sold for between 30 and 50 million pounds. Pricey! But then again convenience counts: The Shard is supposed to be village-like with businesses, shopping, and entertainment all self-contained. Think of all the money you would save on transport if you lived in The Shard.

I was on my way to the Serpentine Gallery to check out the work of the conceptual artist Hans-Peter Feldmann of Dusseldorf. Apparently, giving into a long-held desire to look in his off-limits Mother’s purse, Feldman had asked women to display the contents of their purses. The purses and their contents were on display in the Serpentine with the owner’s first name, city, and age.

I was quite interested to see the contents of the handbags. I was especially interested to see if the contents varied greatly by age. (They did not.) (My interest in the purse exhibition goes back to when I was in charge of adult literacy at the Fremont Family Center. Some of our clients were prisoners’ wives and one client was the wife of a correctional officer. I thought that it might be a good idea to present the prison guard in an alternative light, so I asked him if one evening he would present a short lesson in self-defense. He agreed. After dinner, the children went off to their teachers, and the parents stayed with me.

The parents sat in a circle. The correctional officer stood in the middle of the circle. He asked me to get my purse and join him in the center. I was quite pleased. He was going to show the women in the group how to best protect their bag from a purse-snatcher. I retrieved my bag and upon entering the circle, the officer told me to turn it upside down and spill the contents on the floor.

I did that and one banana peel, one apple core, a used Kleenex, some spare change, and my driver’s license fell out. Everyone laughed and as the laugher died down, the officer drily asked, “Now I ask you, are the contents of this purse worth fighting for?”

Ah.h.h.h.h. Lesson learned.

So… what did I see? The purse of Stephanie, age 43 – Paris, was surprisingly typical. Stephanie’s purse contained make-up to include eyebrow powder, mascara, several lipsticks, tinted moisturizer and Prada perfume; Kleenex; a BlackBerry; a camera; three anti-acid tablets in a blister pack (five blisters popped); keys; phone cards; credit cards; Euros, a train ticket receipt, a pack of Marlboros, a lighter, sunglasses; a miniature hairbrush; two dress shields still wrapped in plastic; a day-planner; antiseptic hand-gel and a tape measure.

And Stephanie’s bag was typical. No wonder we are all maxed out. Too much STUFF!  

Although all of the newspapers were highlighting the spilled handbag exhibit, I wanted to take another look at Feldmann’s ”David.”  I had seen his bigger-than-life nude a couple of years ago in Cologne. You don’t see a lot of pink nudes, and this one had given me a lot to think about. The color of the nude was less pink than Pepto-Bismol but more pink than seaside taffy.

The nude that I had seen in Cologne was not on exhibit, but smaller models stood on plinths. And there were two! “David” was now “Adam” (pink with blond hair on his head and nether-regions) and he looked over at Eve (pink with hussy-red hair, a red drape, and a red apple).

The exhibit did not give me answers. I still have questions. I may have to return to the Serpentine with a friend who is willing to ponder the pink.

One of Feldmann’s exhibits that I liked and understood was one composed of old, family photographs presumably held by the descendents of those pictured. You could not see the faces of the people holding the old family photos, but at the edges of each new photo, you could see the descendents’ fingers holding the old photo. I liked the human link, the touch, between the past and the present. Nice.

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Writer’s Prompt:

I have pasted in a photo of Feldmann’s “David” first displayed in 2006.

• Assume the persona of a critic. Comment on the sculpture.
• Someone has asked you to discuss the artist’s use of pink. What was Feldmann’s motivation?
• On a piece of paper taped to the wall, Feldmann had written (by pasting words cut from another text) “Art must have the right to risk bad.” Comment on this quote.